Lack Luster
by Wondo
Summary: Peter and Neal give a dishonest coin dealer a run for his money.
1. Chapter 1

**Lack Luster**

A/N: Thanks to Phoenix-Cry for the story title.

Chapter 1

Elizabeth stepped quietly out the back door leading to the patio. Spying Peter with his back turned and preoccupied with cooking steaks on the grill, she moved toward him with a stealthy grace. Taking a few steps closer, she tapped his back shoulder and quickly wrapped her arms around her favorite barbeque chef.

Peter jerked in surprise, dropping his tongs and grabbing for her hands.

"El! Give a man some warning."

She giggled as he quickly pulled her in front of him and kissed the top of her head. Releasing her hands, he stepped to the side and pointed to the grill. Two thick, prime-grade boneless rib-eyes sizzled on the grill surrounded by several ears of corn.

"Do you see these steaks?" he asked. "It takes an amazing concentration and expertise to achieve a juicy and tender piece of meat. Lady, I've been working hard out here."

Elizabeth peeked at the steaks and nodded her agreement.

"I know it's difficult being a skilled grill master who achieves steak perfection. But Peter, aren't these cuts rather . . . large? Who are you cooking for? Paul Bunyan?"

"Hon, steak size is very important. In my hours of research and execution, the cut, quality grade, and size are all indicators for success."

Peter wiped some of the sweat off his face.

"Of course, the prep is important too. First, you need to bring the steaks to room temperature. Then a coating of salt promotes the crusty, brown exterior. Of course, not any salt will do. Oh, no!" Peter exclaimed. "It has to be a coarse sea or kosher salt that will break down the protein molecules and seal in the moisture and flavor."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows.

"You just can't beat a good marinade. Besides the usual soy and Worcestershire sauces and array of herbs, this one includes my secret ingredient - lemon juice."

Wrinkling his brow, Peter continued.

"You see, I'm striving for an explosion of favor that will rival the most fancy steak house. These babies are literally going to melt in your mouth, hon. You deserve the very best," he said, leaning down and giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

"I have the best," she replied with an impish grin, "and I'm sure they'll be perfect, Peter."

He beamed with pride, preparing to turn the meat.

Looking down at the grill shelf, his spouse noticed two empty beer bottles.

"Looks like you need a cold refill. Would you like another beer?"

"Ah . . . that would be delightful. Are you volunteering?" he asked, looking up and assuming a winsome expression.

"The least I can do for the man offering me a gastronomical ecstasy."

Peter chuckled.

"Good thing it's late Saturday afternoon," he said. "There's little chance of me being called back into the office. When I finished documenting the financial fraud reports this morning, only Neal was left hanging around the bullpen double checking the statistics. Even he must be home now . . . probably accomplishing whatever mischief he gets into on weekend afternoons."

Elizabeth smiled. Giving him a quick wave, she started to head back to the kitchen, but stopped at the door.

"Why didn't you invite Neal over for the barbeque?" she asked over her shoulder. "You know he enjoys a good steak."

"Hah," Peter replied. "Neal's not exactly the classic chewing carnivore. His idea of beef runs more along the line of a 12-ounce Japanese Kobe for about $350 a pop. We can't afford his idea of a steak cookout."

"I think you'd be surprised," answered Elizabeth, turning to face him. "You know Neal enjoys coming over here. Did you even ask him if he had plans today?"

Flipping the meat, taking a seat on the deck chair closest to the charcoal grill, Peter glanced at his wife apologetically.

"El, I spent my entire Saturday morning with the Harvard crew and Neal. My quota of Caffrey charm has runneth over. I'm really looking forward to a weekend of peace and tranquility."

"I understand," she said. "After the last few days of running down leads on crooked coin dealers, you need some rest."

"The Jenkins Case is a high priority." Peter sighed. "Not only because it involves fraud targeting the elderly but because of Reese Hughes' personal interest. Once he learned that Bradley Jenkins gains the trust of his clients and clears out their life savings, he's become determined to take this guy down."

"I don't blame Reese. Targeting seniors is appalling. Are you getting any closer to prosecution, Peter?"

Peter rubbed his hand through his hair.

"We know the criminals like to target seniors . . . for many reasons. Unfortunately, our own office has seen crimes against the elderly on the rise for quite a while. Senior citizens are more likely to have a nice nest egg, be ashamed to admit being scammed or are even fuzzy on the details. With Jenkins, his victims don't seem to even realize they're swindled until months have passed. This creep gains their trust and _they_ worry about making false accusations. It's been a nightmare finding evidence against him."

"I have confidence in your ability, Agent Burke. And I'll be right back with your brew," Elizabeth promised.

Peter sat down in the patio chair closest to the grill. Keeping an eye on his dinner, he was getting ready to press the flesh, using the hand method to test for doneness, when his cell phone in back pants pocket went off. His groan was probably heard by El back in the kitchen.

He rolled his eyes at the sky and barked, "Burke".

"Hey Peter."

"Yes, Neal. What do you want?"

"My, my! Your grumpiness has not improved since this morning. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"You better have a good reason for disturbing my Saturday afternoon."

"Elizabeth said you're grilling steak. You usually enjoy that. If you─"

"Why were you talking to Elizabeth? No. Never mind! Neal─"

"I just talked to Paul Henderson. You remember, the fellow from Queens who's used Jenkins, in the past, to value and sell his coins."

"I know who Henderson is─"

"Peter. Henderson gave me a name of another person Jenkins targeted. I thought you'd want to know."

"I do. Where are you?"

"I'm still at the office."

Cradling the phone on his shoulder, Peter checked the steaks and pulled them off the grill.

"Give me an hour. I'm coming back in."

"I'll be here. Wait! Are you bringing me some of the rib-eye─"

Peter hung up.

"El," he shouted. "Bring the plates. I have to eat quickly!"


	2. Chapter 2

Lack Luster

A/N: I apologize for the delay in posting Chapter 2. Freelancers are often hit with an onslaught of unexpected work. Hugs to Phoenix-cry for her unending support and nagging to finish this story. :)

Chapter 2

"Why wasn't I invited to your barbeque?" asked Neal.

Grimacing, Peter started to speak, stopped and shrugged.

"From what Elizabeth told me, it sounds like you've become a consummate grill master." Neal paused, voice holding a hint of smug amusement. "I had no idea, Peter."

Seated in Burke's office, the two men had the Jenkins fraud file open in prominent view on the agent's desk. Peter was still wearing his Le Moyne College t-shirt, Dockers pants and sneakers, his go-to comfortable clothes for grilling, having decided there was no need to revert back to morning Brooks Brothers. Neal, on the other hand, was still attired in a trademark outfit. Wearing a blue, well fitted three piece Devore with pin-striped vest, white shirt, striking gray satin tie, and brown Italian-made shoes from Barneys' of New York, he vastly outshone in the splendor of attire.

After briefing his handler on the details of the phone conversation with Paul Hendricks, the conman now had ample opportunity for one of his favorite pastimes; razzing his favorite Special Agent. Casually placing his size ten and half shoes on Peter's desk, Neal leaned back and laced his hands behind his head.

Peter breathed deeply, abruptly leaning forward in his seat.

"Take your feet off my desk, Caffrey."

Peter's glare bounced off Neal's seemingly impenetrable self-confident, Teflon shield.

"Why do my feet, on the desk, bother you?" asked Neal, pinning a bright, innocent, open grin on face.

"Besides the fact that it's _my_ desk?" Peter questioned. "Because it's undignified and not acceptable in a Federal Agent's office. That's why," he explained, eyeballing Neal until the man casually shifted in his seat and sat back up.

"Hmm . . . I didn't know collegiate tees were now part of the FBI's sedate attire. Peter, school spirit and affiliation are one thing, but─"

"You didn't get the memo from HR?" interrupted Peter. "Neal, I've told you over and over, it's important to read our policy newsletter. 'News You Can Use' covers office attire during dress-down afternoons. "Today was school pride," he chided. "Maybe if you had attended an institution of higher learning, you too would have felt compelled to participate."

Neal smiled. "You know I never read propaganda."

"Your loss. Now getting back to the main reason I left my beautiful wife holding grill utensils . . . tell me again about Isaac . . . Isaac whoever."

"Isaac Kleid. Retired violinist from Bloomington, Indiana. Henderson told me Mr. Kleid, who he met at the International Numismatic Convention, called him several months ago asking him how well he knew our 'renown' coin dealer, Bradley Jenkins. Henderson seemed to feel Kleid was fishing for any hint of impropriety or fraud in the man's background. When Henderson pressed him for more information, the violinist quickly shut down and ended the conversation. Henderson thought it was odd at the time."

"Henderson met him at a Coin Show?"

"A numismatic convention; I believe that's what I said. The Waldorf Astoria hosts them periodically."

Peter frowned. "And you know this how? He shook his head. "Never mind."

The agent shifted in his chair. Picking up his laser pen, he pointed it at Neal, saying, "And I'm aware that numismatics is the study of currency, including coins, paper money and tokens. I just don't want my Saturday burdened with hearing about the minutia of coin collecting."

As Neal began to open his mouth, Peter interrupted.

"Stop. You don't need to tell me that minutiae is one of the reasons people enjoy coin collecting. All those little differences they identify and research, to find out what they mean, knocks their socks off."

"Ah, but Peter that's one of the most fascinating aspects of coin collecting. Just ask Mozzie."

"Of course," Peter winced, shaking his head. "Mozzie is a coin collector. Is there anything he doesn't try to get in his little culpable hands?

Neal just shrugged his shoulders.

"And I'm sure you've been obtaining his expertise on this case."

"He's a card carrying member of the PNG," answered Neal.

Confusion flared in Peter's unblinking stare.

"Professional Numismatists Guild. P N G," Neal explained. "An organization of rare coin dealers, paper money and precious metals dealers. But it's been hard to convince him to help us on this one."

"Why is that?" asked Peter, straight-faced. He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a quarter. Holding it up, he smirked. "Can't you make him see 'the other side of the coin'?"

Neal ignored the pun and rolled his eyes.

"He said his quota for helping Uncle Sam's minions is filled for the year. However," the younger man added, "I think Mozzie's curiosity about Jenkins' modus operandi has worn down his resolve to stay aloof. It's time to bring him in."

"You think he'd ask his street contacts and _numismatists_ cohorts for the skinny on Jenkins? We could really use any help. Hughes is getting hot under the collar over our lack of progress, and so am I."

"Once Mozzie learned more about the men Jenkins targets, his resistance quickly ebbed," said Neal.

"Meaning the elderly?"

Neal nodded solemnly, his blue eyes suddenly not meeting Peter's but darting off to the side.

Peter smiled at him.

"What made you stay so late today, Neal? After everyone had left? You're the first person out the door on weekends. I usually have to warn my agents to clear the doorway."

Neal returned the smile.

"I was sitting at my desk going through back issues of the CCDN Bluesheet. I remembered reading an older article about Paul Henderson, Kleid and Jenkins meeting at the U.S. Heritage Coin Auction. There'd been a photo beside the caption promoting Jenkins' business. I know Henderson wasn't willing to say anything derogatory about Jenkins, but maybe he'd be willing to provide us with some information about someone who would."

Peter sat back and listened. Neal spending his Saturday tediously rifling through old Certified Coin Dealers Newsletters? That alone was remarkable. The weekly report of the American coin market had the ability to put Peter to sleep within minutes.

"I thought it was worth a shot," the conman continued. "At first, Mr. Kleid and I chit-chatted about coins . . . he's been interested in them from childhood . . . the weather in Bloomington . . . it's cold there by the way . . . his career as a professional violinist . . . twenty-eight years of experience in the local orchestra and weddings . . . but when I broached the subject of Jenkins, he stopped me cold."

Neal raised his hands in frustration. "Let's go to Bloomington. If I talk to him face to face, I know I can change his mind."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Peter shook his head. "No."

Neal sank back into his seat and closed his eyes.

"We'll send a local agent to talk to Klein directly. Maybe that will stir the pot."

"Kleid not Klein. German origin meaning garment or clothing," Neal stated morosely.

Peter looked across at him with concern.

Neal shifted again, opening his eyes and starring at the floor.

"Solving this case is very important to you."

"Peter, Jenkins targets men from small towns and takes their retirement and life savings. He doesn't go after high rollers, the corporate world or high society."

"Financial fraud occurs all the time, Neal. We've taken down sleazy operators before."

"Jenkins targets the elderly. Some of these men are over eighty years old." Raking fingers through his hair, Neal gestured to no one in particular.

Peter rolled the quarter on his desk absentmindedly between his fingers, listening to his partner as he pocketed the coin with a sweep of one hand.

"He owns two lucrative coin businesses in New York, creates a sterling reputation gaining the trust of his clients," Neal continued. "He zeroes in on the lonely and infirm. Those too embarrassed to admit to being swindled. He's convinced he'll get away with it."

"And you're determined he won't."

Standing up from his desk, Peter assumed his usual office stance. Elbow cocked, right hand perched on his belt, he looked at Neal with fondness. "Come on, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"You are coming home with me," Peter stated. "Prepare yourself for an ultimate culinary delight. We'll eat some steak, drink some beer and brainstorm strategy that'll put Jenkins behind bars."

Neal jumped to his feet and followed Peter out the door.

"Um, tell me Peter, when you grill do you wear a toque?"


	3. Chapter 3

Lack Luster

A/N: Thank you for all the reviews, favs and follows.

Chapter 3

The rain had slowed to a nasty cold drizzle in Midtown Manhattan. Due to the poor weather and visibility there were a limited number of pedestrians strolling past Bradley Jenkins' coin establishment on 44th street, just off 6th Avenue.

'Elite Coin', known for its sleek black and silver interior, boasted a glittering array of precious coins on display, amid glass showcases and white shelves lining all three walls. Placement and arrangement of freestanding glass cabinets, on hardwood floors, combined with stunning crystal lamp motifs, provided an elegant atmosphere sure to delight the customers entering the premises.

There was even a seating area in the back offering the weary shopper a place to sit, relax and consume beverages. A fine selection of luxury tea and coffees were artfully arranged to entice participation. The store strived to emphasize an environment that made you feel comfortable and welcome. It certainly was not your usual mundane coin shop.

Quickly stepping through the glass storefront doors, Peter was more interested in getting out of the inclement weather than admiring Jenkins' ostentatious display of merchandise. Obviously, the scoundrel had plenty of money and didn't mind liberally spreading it around the three establishments he owned. 'Elite Coin' was his primary retail business, but Jenkins owned two additional coin shops in the state of New York.

"Very impressive, Peter." Neal stated. Carefully eyeing the inventory and décor, his enthusiasm shone through his gestures and in his eyes and face.

Peter momentarily stopped wrestling with his umbrella, blown inside out by the outside gale, and turned to face his consultant.

"Whoa there. Is this an adrenalized vigor prompted by the manifestations of wealth and retribution? Neal, you look like an eight-year-old stepping into the neighborhood penny candy store."

'Penny candy?' Neal repeated, silently mouthing the words. Eyes blinking, a roguish grin flickered across his face. "No wonder you don't ever fill the staff office candy dish. I thought you were just . . . "

Raising his eyebrows, Peter's fixed his eyes on Neal.

". . . frugal."

"I have too contributed to the office candy dish."

This time Neal raised his eyebrows.

"I'll admit it's not as often as _some_ people's contributions but I don't feel comfortable promoting unhealthy eating and obesity."

"So says Mr. Sugar-O's," relied Neal, shaking out his exorbitantly-priced, personally engraved, British Brigg umbrella, inadvertently flinging water droplets on his handler.

Peter swept his hand over his brow, wiping off moisture.

"Have you ever thought about purchasing an umbrella you don't have to insure with loss protection insurance?"

"Nope. Some of the world's finest umbrellas come from Great Britain. This design and craftsmanship is impeccable. I told you Peter that no self-respecting gentlemen would─"

"Oh good," whispered Peter to himself as he spied the store clerk quickly advancing on them.

"May I help you, gentlemen?" asked a skinny middle-aged man, dressed in finest New York business suit attire.

 _No denim and diamonds garb here_ , thought Peter. Jenkins must insist his clerks emulate his success.

"You have a fine inventory," noted Neal, strolling among the display cabinets, stopping at one right under the sign extolling the business as an Authorized Dealer of Numismatic Guaranty Corporation and Professional Coin Grading Service.

"Thank you," answered the clerk, rushing to follow the richly dressed gentleman, leaving Peter, in close pursuit, a few steps behind him.

"We strive to meet our customer's needs. My name is Elliot and I'm here to answer any of your questions."

"Talk about an expensive hobby," muttered Peter.

"Hobby? Hobby, sir?" Elliot sputtered. "We cater to dealers, educated collectors, and investors. Our collection includes world and U.S. coins, silver and gold coins, Wheat Pennies, copper and double die pennies, sets of rare coin series, collectible paper money . . . What exactly are your interests?"

Peter couldn't resist. "My dad loved taking me to stamp and baseball card shows. We'd cover the room searching the vendor's tables hoping to 'score' some really great finds."

Neal smiled at Peter's jab, and took pity on the salesclerk.

"Do you offer competitive pricing for Gold Krugerrands?" Neal asked casually, as Peter's eyes narrowed.

The agent cast him a quick questioning look.

"Ah." Elliot nodded, lighting up like a Christmas tree. "Every Krugerrand gold bullion coin is truly a work of art; minted to exacting standards by the South African Mint. We would be delighted to discuss your collection."

Neal directed his smile toward Peter.

"Elliot." A voice interrupted. "I'll handle this."

Mr. Bradley Jenkins, a tall, broad shouldered, well-built man in his mid-forties, stepped up to the front of the display case. Wearing a tailored to perfection gray Armani suit and dress shirt with Gucci silk tie, the coin dealer seemed to exude confidence.

"I've had the extreme displeasure of meeting these men before."


	4. Chapter 4

Lack Luster

Chapter 4

As Eliott, the bewildered store clerk, nodded and began to turn away, he stopped for a moment as Jenkins grabbed his sleeve.

"Just a moment, please. What were they asking you about?"

"This gentleman," Eliott said, pointing to Neal, "wanted to discuss his Krugerrand collection. This other man," he indicated with a disdainful lift of nose, "is interested in baseball cards and stamp collecting."

The set of his jaw bespoke annoyance, as he sniffed in derision before departing to attend the two newly arrived customers entering the store.

"Baseball cards and stamp collecting, Agent Burke?" said Jenkins, stepping closer and facing Peter. "Couldn't you come up with a better story than that?"

"He wasn't making up a story," Neal interjected, "it's probably . . . regrettably, true. Right?" he questioned, throwing a pained glance over to his partner.

Peter nodded, straight-faced.

"Yeah. I was always hoping to hit the sweet spot. You know, that elusive collectible that would have scored a home run." A seemingly winsome smile began to spread over the agent's face as he began to wax nostalgic.

"The first baseball stamp was issued in 1939, the Centennial of Baseball, Scott number 855," continued Peter, with an expansive gesture of his hands, "issued under the prompting of James Farley, a lifelong baseball fan and Postmaster General under Franklin Roosevelt. It was violet in color and worth _three cents_ when first released."

Jenkins, raising eyebrows in disbelief, crossed his arms over his chest, cupping his elbows in his hands, throwing an askance look at Neal.

The younger man just shrugged, quietly uttering a noncommittal noise.

"If I had the choice," said Jenkins, "and I probably do not . . . I'd almost certainly choose to talk Krugerrands with your miscreant sidekick."

Neal smiled smugly.

"South African gold Krugerrands were the world's first modern bullion gold coin," Neal recited to Peter, "and even to this day, it remains one of the most popular coins minted, considered an international symbol of wealth and prestige."

Jenkins yawned.

"Mr. Caffrey, will you hold off giving your overseer a much needed history lesson until later?"

"You mean like informing me that the coins were first minted in 1967 to help market South African gold and were produced by the South African Mint?" Peter replied. "That the name itself is a compound of 'Kruger' and 'rand', and by 1980, the bullion accounted for 90% of the global coin market?"

"But let's just take Krugerrands off the table," added Peter, "and sidestep my CI's interest and past exploits in the field."

Jenkins smile was cold, a toothy shark's grin, revealing uneven teeth and large canines. It was a grin Neal wanted desperately to wipe off the dealer's face.

"Agent Burke, let's cut to the chase, shall we? What do you want? I thought during our last chat, in your field office, we settled the matter. I had absolutely nothing to do with Morris Brown's missing coins."

"Mr. Brown has a different opinion on the matter. His formal complaint states you persuaded him, via telephone, to send his private collection to him with the verbal promise that your consulting business would hold his collection, evaluate it and sell the coins upon his request."

Peter's face became hard set, almost like marble, as he fixed Jenkins with a fixed glare.

"After Morris Brown handed over his life savings, you didn't pay or return the collection back to him. In fact, you stopped answering his calls and blocked his ability to directly reach you."

Neal leaned forward, alert and attentive, having had personal experience of Peter's glare. Jenkins had stroked the Agent's ire. The coin seller was falling into a trap; not recognizing his formidable opponent's dogged tenacity to ensure justice.

"We know you were in communication with Morris Brown. In fact, you've had an ongoing business relationship with him for years. Mr. Brown related to my consultant that you always asked about his grandchildren . . . sent him Christmas cards . . . collaborated on several successful coin sales. He would have had no reason not to trust your business offer to hold his valuable coin collection for evaluation and sale for mutual profit."

Jenkins remained emotionless, eyes unblinking.

"I'm wondering why now, after establishing financial rapport with collectors and dealers around the world, you would steal from a few chosen customers, risking an unscrupulous reputation and persecution for financial fraud."

Neal stepped forward.

"Small risk if you're banking on the fact your mark is elderly, probably ashamed of their gullibility and extremely hesitant to press charges. Look for someone who's lonely or getting on in years, and slowly offer them support and attention."

Neal closed his eyes for a moment in thought. "Seniors raised in earlier generations were brought up to be polite and more trusting. Provide them with a few successful deals, send small gifts and gain their confidence."

"You would most certainly know, Mr. Caffrey." Jenkins snapped. "Talking from your vast experience in the field?" He lifted his hand, tapping his forehead as if in deep thought. "What was your felony conviction for again?"

Neal muttered something Peter couldn't quite catch, which was probably just as well. As his partner began to move toward the coin dealer, Peter's calming hand on his arm stopped him.

Neal looked down at the hand and stepped back. Beneath his casual pose, Peter felt Neal's faint quiver of tension. His consultant was inwardly seething.

"My conviction was for Bond Forgery," Neal answered, calmly. "But Mr. Brown surprised you, didn't he? He didn't step back and fade away . . . not like Issac Kleid or whoever else you've bilked."

Jenkins waved aside his words. "You're wrong, Mr. Caffrey. Let's face it. Morris is a nice old man, but he's in his eighties, sadly losing his grip on reality. He brought these charges _months_ after he misplaced his collection."

Dismissing Neal, Jenkins turned back to Peter.

"I'm sure Morris hasn't been able to give you any detailed information. But then, isn't memory loss the most common symptom of dementia? Poor man," he uttered, shaking his head in sympathy. "I wanted to help at first. That's why I've been so patient with your questions. More than patient, I might add. But now I must insist you leave. Any further discussion will be with my lawyer present."

"Let's go, Neal," said Peter.

"Oh . . . and gentlemen, once you solve your case, be sure and come back to shop at 'Elite Coin' for a unique buying experience. Remember, we do our best to make the customer feel at home and welcome. Remember our motto."

"Shopping here is like visiting a loyal and trusted friend," supplied Peter, spying the shop maxim displayed above the door.

"And Mr. Caffrey, be sure to bring your Krueggarands, that is, if your supervisor lets you out alone."

Neal ignored him.

"Thank you, Peter," said the CI walking behind Peter out the door.

"For what?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder, tugging to open his umbrella. As the wind quickly turned it inside out, Neal stepped forward and held his own luxury model over the agent's head.

"For stopping me from wrapping my hands around Jenkins' neck."

"Neal, I promise. You have first dibs on preparing the paperwork for his felony conviction."

Both men smiled, as they hurried off.

WCWCWCWCWC

A/N: My work schedule is heating up for the next month. I probably won't be able to post the next chapter for several weeks. I apologize and hope you'll stick with the story. Thanks.


	5. Chapter 5

Lack Luster

Chapter 5

"So why are we meeting in the Federal Building?" Mozzie asked once the doors closed on both him and Neal. "Last time I was here, I had to take a daily dose of Xanax for longer than I care to discuss."

The small, balding man was not displeased by the lack of other guests in the extremely claustrophobic-inducing elevator space. Just the thought of sharing the lift, never mind an entire building, with the enemy made him break out in an uncontrollable itch over half his body.

It had taken Neal's considerable expertise in the persuasion department, plus the inducement of a stashed artifact, three catered meals, and one rare bottle of Eiswein…true Eiswein, the German nectar, to get him this far.

"Even with that," Mozzie continued, "the benzodiazepine fell far short of its hyped claim to provide a tranquilizing affect."

"I remember that, Moz." Neal smiled understandably. "Your agoraphobia took a dramatic upturn swing. After Gina left for California, you refused to leave my apartment for weeks."

"Upturn? It sky rocked through the roof. And it was _not_ my disorder that triggered my setback but the proximity to a horde of overpaid, brainwashed functionaries."

"As I remember it, those brainwashed functionaries were quite helpful in rescuing Gina from Navarro's gang."

"Hah," replied the smaller man. "I had to put my life in danger to broker the drop. They showed up after I had it all in hand."

Neal's mild disapproving glance caused a slight flush to radiate over his companion's face. After a short moment, in between bouts of intense scratching, Mozzie dropped his head, starring down at his sneaker-clad feet.

The ride up on the elevator continued charged with silence.

"Well," he muttered softly, "Peter and his motley crew may have come in at just the opportune moment." He peeked at Neal. "I was grateful, mon ami."

"I know you were." Placing his hands in his pockets, Neal leaned against the side wall. "Now, I want you to give us a hand in taking down Jenkins."

"I haven't seen you this fired up over an arrest since we framed, ah…provided evidence to the local cops about, 'Killer Kowalsky'."

"Moz, that happened years ago. When I was still working for Adler."

"Yeah, but I'll never forget the delight in your eyes when that cretin disappeared off the streets."

"He took distinct pleasure in harming the most vulnerable. Kids, immigrants, the poor─"

"And the elderly." Mozzie paused for a moment. "Ah, I see the pattern."

"We were discussing how you can help Peter."

"May I point out that I am standing," Mozzie grimaced, "in the Dark Force's lair, exuding cooperation and ready to go forth to do battle for a higher cause."

"I explained why Peter asked us to meet him in his office. He's tied up all day with meetings and prepping the task force assisting Violent Crimes on the Petrocelli case. Besides, 'cooperation is a higher moral principal than competition.'"

"No, no," uttered the agitated confidence man, "this is not cooperation. I'd rather think of our little endeavor as collaboration for mutual gain."

The elevator doors slid open on the 21st floor. Neal first pried, pushed and then led his small friend through the bullpen area and up the stairs to Peter's glassed-in office. The little man was convinced Jones and Diana were slyly nudging and snickering behind his back.

Mozzie pulled Neal to a stop just outside Peter's door and turned to face him.

"You owe me big time," he stage whispered before quickly stepping into the office.

Peter, seated casually at his desk, looked up and sighed.

Following closely behind Mozzie, Neal smiled down at him.

"Here he is, Peter. And you were wrong; Moz is delighted to help us put Jenkins' away."

Scowling at Neal, the smaller man turned to Peter.

"Let's get this straight." He quickly sat down in one of the two empty seats. "Suit, I'm here under duress. We need to get this conversation over in record time and part company."

Gesturing down below to the vicinity of the elevators, he added, "And by the way, how often do you Feds have the elevators tested? Weekly, monthly or when it 'suits' you? I distinctly felt jerky starts and stops and even some suspicious vibrations as the cab rose upward."

"Could it have been your knees shaking?" asked Peter straight-faced, rubbing his mouth to hide a smile that was pulling on the corners of his lips.

"Haha. Elevators have an end to their service life just like government lackeys. Both give off warning signs." He paused. "I can describe them to you."

Slumping in his chair, Peter momentarily placed his head in his hands. As if drawing on inhuman strength, he shuddered, straightened his shoulders and faced Mozzie.

"However, I won't," Neal's friend continued. "Even minor change would be nearly impossible due to the mountain of bureaucracy you would have to wade through. So, your job is at least safe."

"I am really not in the mood for this. Neal!" Peter exclaimed.

"Why don't we talk about what you found out from your sources." said Neal, sitting down beside Mozzie. "Tell Peter about the post office box."

First reaching back as if to scratch a persistence itch on his back, Mozzie then leaned forward, folding his arms on Peter's desk.

"I've been pounding the pavement for the last few days; you'll get my bill later, talking to my sources and a few of my colleagues in the Numismatists Guild. Most of them described Jenkins' as a well-known, veteran coin dealer, offering quality and selective merchandise at competitive prices."

"The same ballyhoo crap we've been getting across the board."

Mozzie stole a quick glance at Neal, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"It gets better, Suit. Remember 'all things are difficult before they become easy.' One of my less savory associates had the opportunity to work with Jenkins on several mutual exhibits. After some money changed hands between us, he was suddenly thrilled to tell me Jenkins' used several post office boxes for personal delivery. The deliveries he wanted to keep private."

Peter and Neal smiled at each other across the desk.

"I assume these post office locations aren't the same ones Peter and I already investigated. Right, Moz?"

"Nope. They are off the grid mark, gentlemen." There was a devilish smile of triumph on his face. "And I, of course, have each address memorized."

"We know Morris Brown mailed his coin collection to Jenkins," said Peter. "Being careful to insure it, he verified the receipt and then misplaced the paperwork weeks after Jenkins picked up the coins."

"Leaving no trace when the transaction took place or which post office in Manhattan it was sent to…" added Neal.

"My gut is telling me this is our best lead yet. Combine that with the pressure our Bloomington office is placing on Issac Klein─"

"Kleid, Peter. Not Klein."

Peter grimaced. "Right, right, I remember 'German clothing.'"

"You two don't have to talk code, in front of me," interrupted Mozzie. "I'm happy to leave after I write the addresses down." Standing up quickly, he eyeballed Peter's desk for paper and pen.

Rummaging through his desk, Peter quickly dug out a wrinkled piece of paper and pushed it and a pen over to Mozzie. "Here you go," he said cheerfully.

Mozzie wrote out the information on the sheet and turned to leave.

"Mozzie!" called the agent. "Do you, ah, have some skin allergy?"

"What do you mean, Suit?"

"You've been scratching yourself since you walked in."

Neal signaled Peter to stop with a hand gesture.

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied Mozzie dismissively. "I need to go."

"Well, thank you for the information. It may just be want we need to break the case open. Agent Hughes will be delighted."

"I'm thrilled," was the response as Mozzie scurried from the office.


	6. Chapter 6

Lack Luster

A/N: I apologize for the long overdue update. Two extensive work gigs back-to-back sadly left little time for writing. Now on my break, after this story is complete, I plan to write another "Animula" chapter and rewrite/expand one or two of my earlier hurt/comfort fics from 2010. Also on the docket is a multi-chapter WC fic featuring a missing Stradivarius.

Chapter 6

"You trust this new information?" asked Agent Hughes.

Prior to redirecting his focus back to his lead agent, the elder SAC, standing with imposing posture in Peter's doorway, threw a questioning glare at Neal. The look on his face demonstrated the confidence (or lack thereof) he personally held in Mozzie's tip-off.

"I'm tired of the office chasing its tail on the Jenkins' investigation," he growled, "we've looked like bumbling fools. Now you're asking me to put stock in the jabber of Caffrey's lunatic friend."

Slouching lower in his seat, Neal seemed to disappear within himself. Discretion…and letting Peter handle Hughes were the better part of valor, he reminded himself. He could be cautious when the need arose.

Peter sat forward, tossing some documents down on the desk. As he looked up, his eyes were serious and weary, mind buzzing with thoughts of an impending arrest. Slowly rubbing his forehead, he paused before replying.

"Reese, you know we've used Mozzie before. He's come through in the past; his presentation is ah… unorthodox but the information often… reliable."

"Do you know that little man once cornered me at your house and told me the Apollo Moon Landing was a hoax, staged by NASA?"

Peter growled, shooting Neal a look of unease.

And," Hughes paused, "he actually believed it."

Neal suddenly discovered Peter's floor an interesting study while the lead agent shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Peter knew it had been a bad idea to invite both Hughes and Haversham to one of El's parties. But she had insisted and he, of course, deferred to her wishes.

 _What did the wise man once say about tempting fate?_ he thought. _Ah,_ _'Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.'_ Well, it seemed to have the appearance of a short bald rat with black framed eyeglasses.

"Even stranger still," the senior agent continued, "he continued to harangue me for thirty minutes insisting the government manufactured, tampered with and destroyed key evidence of telemetry, moon rocks, photographs and radio and television transmissions. Actually wanted me to initiate a covert investigation."

Keeping his hard, piercing gaze fixed on Burke, Hughes took a few steps further into the room, stopping abruptly next to Neal's chair. As the younger man began to rise from his seat, in feigned deference, Hughes shot out his hand and stopped him.

"Sit _down_ , Caffrey."

Feeling a heavy hand on his shoulder, Neal sat.

"Do you know that during the moon landings, photos and videos clearly show multiple light sources being present suggesting the photographs were taken on a film set?" Hughes asked dryly. "And that astronauts passing through Van Allen's radiation belt would have undoubtedly been cooked by the sheer magnitude of radiation despite the coating of aluminum on the spaceship."

Silence descended upon the room.

"And let's not forget the smoking gun, so to speak. We have the footage of Aldrin planting the waving American flag on the moon, clearly showing the presence of wind, which is, of course, is impossible in the vacuum of space."

As Neal opened his mouth to speak, Hughes turned without a word and strode off down the hallway.

Neal and Peter looked at each other across the desk. Starring eyeball to eyeball, they listened until the heavy footsteps receded.

Leaning back on the rear two legs of his chair, Neal shrugged. Casually placing his hands behind his head, he began to smile.

"That went well."

"Stop."

"He could have rejected Mozzie's scuttlebutt," replied Neal. "Or ordered us to cease and desist."

Peter groaned internally.

"If this goes south, I know who'll be the goat and it won't be a certain half pint fruit loop we all know and love. It will be yours truly. "

Neal's eyes sparkled with mirth. "What happened to your gut telling you this is the best lead yet?"

"It changed to gut-wrenching," Peter replied. "I didn't hear _you_ defending Haversham's information."

"Now Peter. Haven't you always told me to smarten up? Exercise caution around Hughes; let you be the one to do the talking?"

"Yes," Peter admitted dully. "I said that."

"I was just obediently following your advice."

Nodding, Peter suddenly rose from his desk chair and strode around the desk over to Neal.

The conman barely suppressed his surprise when Peter bent down, placing one hand on his arm. Surprise quickly turned to amusement as he caught Peter's word.

"Coward," was the fierce whisper in his ear.

 _ **WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC**_

The next day found Peter Burke, with trusty CI by his side, strolling through several city boroughs. Investigating several post offices on Mozzie's hard-won list caused the G-man's mood to darken with each failed location. It was only at the fourth venue, on Canal Street, in lower Manhattan, that the partners hit pay dirt.

Just in time, Neal thought.

He didn't know if Peter was in danger of having a coronary (infinitely difficult to explain to Elizabeth) or whether he would need to warn Mozzie to lie low for… well, several months.

East of West Houston Street had loomed the short squat building housing the United States Postal Office. Widely known for inadequate customer service and over-the-top rude clerks, locals shuddered to enter the lines of twenty or more people deep. Neal felt it was one of those places best to avoid, saving your sanity, unless you were extremely desperate to receive your correspondence.

"Ah… Peter?"

No response.

Customers in line gave both men the stink eye as Peter, with smiling, apologetic Neal in tow, pushed and nudged their way to the front. Neal hoped he wouldn't be attacked by the soon-to-be lynch mob, if the glares from the local customers were any clue.

"I'd like to talk to the supervisor on duty," stated Peter, his brisk federal agent demeanor in full force.

The young, bored postal clerk barely raised an eyebrow.

"You have to get back in line and wait your turn," he growled.

"I don't think so," answered the agent. "This is official business."

"We don't do that sort of thing here. You need to go elsewhere." The clerk, hair tied back in ponytail, yawned and pointed to the door.

We don't do that sort of thing here, thought Neal. Peter will have that coronary.

The consultant noted Peter's facial expression. With one glance he sized the man up, and the warning glint in Peter's eyes and cheekbone twitch made Neal want to take two steps back and observe the show.

Calmly and slowly pulling out his badge, Peter waved it under the man's nose and placed it on the counter.

"I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI."

"Listen. We answer to the Postal Inspection Service, not you."

The small, littered waiting area became remarkably quiet. Even the children, who earlier were screeching or tugging on their parents clothes, recognized the change in room atmosphere. Postal customers, craning their necks to see what would transpire, seemed to have shifted alliance from previous hostility to anticipation. How would this lawman handle being on the infuriating, receiving end of asinine bureaucracy?

"Closed to serve you better," muttered Peter, in a sardonic aside to Neal, his anger radiating off him in waves.

"Look Earl," advised the agent, casting a quick glance at the clerk's nametag, "postal inspectors have developed close working relations with other federal agencies. Our overlapping jurisdiction often requires us to use mutual collaboration."

Opening his suit jacket, Peter pulled out his paperwork, providing a clear view of his shoulder holster and Glock. Placing a document on the table, intentionally upside down and hard to read, he reached toward his back snapping his cuffs free from his belt.

"This is a warrant to search a postal box. Now, I will only ask you, once more, to call your supervisor before I place you spread-eagle on the floor, in front of all these nice people, and happily cuff your hands behind your back."

Neal nodded at Earl. "He'll do it," he said offering a megawatt Caffrey smile.

Earl took a hesitant step back, moving his hands away from Peter. With no offer of assistance coming from his unexpectedly quiet co-workers, his face paled. Leaning toward a small back door marked 'Reginald MacDonald Supervisor,' he knocked and directed both Peter and Neal to enter.

Peter put his handcuffs away, picking up his badge and warrant off the counter.

"Now, that wasn't too difficult, was it?" he asked Earl. "And to all your customers back there," Peter motioned toward the people in line, "make sure you provide courtesy and speed." He paused. "I'll be back out here within 15 minutes."

Before the man could answer, a few customers began to clap. The agent strode through the door without a backward glance, followed closely by an amused Neal.

As they entered MacDonald's office, Neal whispered to Peter.

"I admired your restraint back there, Peter."

"Never argue with a fool, onlookers may not be able to tell the difference."

"Twain?"

"Yes," the agent replied with a grin, as the postal supervisor rose to greet them.

Peter's day was about to get better. MacDonald would provide evidence of a postal box, rented by Bradley Jenkins, under the name of his sister, Eloise Murdock.


	7. Chapter 7

Lack Luster

A/N: Thank you to all those who read, reviewed or left kudos. I hope you enjoyed the story. By the way, the GUY SAVOY really does offer the 18 course meal that Neal mentions.

Chapter 7

"Honey, why are you grinning?" asked Elizabeth.

"He reminds me of the Cheshire Cat," Neal interjected, "but I know why." Pausing to reach for the wine bottle, he glanced at his handler with a knowing wink.

"If I begin to expound on baffling philosophical points or even worse my body begins to disappear, give me a head's up," replied Peter.

Placing his fork down beside his empty plate, the agent sat back in his dining chair, looking up at his two attractive dinner companions. Having finished the last bit of El's delectable red wine braised short ribs, he sighed in gastronomical delight. A moment later, he acknowledged his wife's previous observation.

"Was I smiling?" asked Peter, casting a warm glance at Elizabeth. "Just recognition and sincere appreciation of this gourmet meal." A quiet twinkle danced in his eyes. "The meat was fantastic, hon."

Elizabeth looked amused. "Peter, I appreciate the accolades but you enjoy any meat dish I cook. This one just happens to be beef braised in Cabernet Sauvignon."

"It was delicious, Elizabeth," agreed Neal. "Did I taste a mixture of thyme, oregano, and parsley with a touch of rosemary?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Your palate is as sensitive as usual."

"I've enjoyed some classes in molecular gastronomy." Neal smiled. "And the meat paired with your creamy polenta was a winner."

Peter rolled his eyes as Neal turned his attention to him.

"A gourmet dish uses common or uncommon ingredients in a very creative way. It's not just the quality of the ingredients, but especially the preparation and a presentation of artistic flair."

"And of course, you know all about that," remarked Peter.

"In Paris, beef ribs are the preferred rib, since the chefs like to sear the meat, combine it with stock and vegetables and simmer for hours for succulent taste. But, have I ever told you about the meal I enjoyed at the GUY SAVOY in Paris?"

"No, but I'm sure you will."

"Peter stop. I want to hear about it," said Elizabeth.

"Owned and managed by Guy Savoy, the restaurant annually wins receives three stars from the Michelin Guide─"

"The tire guys?" questioned Peter.

"Yes Peter, the tire guys. The guide originated as a manual for motorists, and in 1926 it began to award stars for fine dining locations, becoming so popular in France that the Michelin brothers created a team of inspectors to review restaurants. The red Michelin Guide now covers 23 countries. Each year, when it's published in France, there's a media circus," Neal laughed, "like the Academy Awards. Everyone wants a Michelin star."

"Oh Neal, describe your meal at the SAVOY." Excitement laced Elizabeth's voice.

"I sampled an 18 course meal that included cubed oysters, caviar, artichoke soup with black truffle, roasted lobster, red mullet, salmon, rack of lamb… and assorted cheeses, biscuits and sorbets. It was a gastronomical delight."

Neal beamed broadly at them, flooded with pleasant memories.

"Sounds quite the experience," said Elizabeth, casting a somewhat wistful glance at her husband.

"Sounds like a road to poverty," replied her practical Peter. "And, tell us, how much did this 'gastronomical delight' set you back?"

"At the time, it was around $400 per person. I'm not sure what it would cost today."

Peter sputtered with indignation. "Wh…what? We're not going there, El."

"Honey, relax. I'm not planning to fly to Paris any time soon."

Neal raised his wine glass in a salute to the cook. "French dining experience c'est tres magnifique… but nothing surpasses a delicious meal served with love. Thank you, Elizabeth."

Wearing a warm, proud smile on his face, Peter happily joined his friend in the toast.

"Thank you both, gentlemen." Elizabeth paused. "But Peter, you didn't explain why you're so happy tonight. I know it's more than my cooking. Come on, fess up, mister."

"We plan to arrest Jenkins tomorrow."

Elizabeth smiled at the news; she was inwardly happy for the two men. She knew how much Jenkins' abuse of seniors had rankled the entire White Collar office.

"Neal and I are looking forward to nailing that SOB. I have him under surveillance; just waiting for all the paperwork to clear. Since we're charging him with mail fraud, I requested both the postal service and the Assistant US Attorney review the case. Always a good thing to dot the i's and cross all the t's."

"Peter enjoys dotting the i's and crossing all the t's," Neal added. "I think he savors that moment with every arrest. I'm sure he keeps a copy of my felony conviction in his desk."

"Wait. How do you know what's in my desk? And… if it's anywhere, your arrest paperwork would be filed in my private scrapbook collection."

"You have an arrest scrapbook?" exclaimed the conman, surprise evident on his face. "Am I in it? I must be. Where is it? Do you keep it here or at the office?"

Peter remained infuriatingly silent and smug.

"Elizabeth?" Neal presented his award-winning pleading smile and puppy dog eyes. "Does Peter have a personal scrapbook of his most celebrated arrests?"

"You mean 'Burke's Book of Busted Bad Boys'?" she asked, eyes shining with mischief.

Neal nodded.

"I'll never tell."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It was a much nicer day, weather-wise, than on Peter and Neal's previous visit to Jenkins' 'Elite Coin' shop. No blustery weather, no struggling with umbrellas, just bright sunshine and moderate temperature. Neal had a spring in his step as he held the front door open for Peter.

Agents Jones and Berrigan, along with a few of the Harvard crew, remained in readiness outside the storefront, waiting for the signal to act. They had requested to be present during the takedown. Although the office believed, once Jenkins was aware of the federal felony warrant, he would surrender peacefully, lawyering up and letting others fight the charge, several agents were hoping the coin dealer would resist arrest thus earning him another charge and additional time in federal jail. Diana was secretly thrilled to be the one chosen to escort the man to the federal building for questioning.

Even Agent Hughes planned to be in on the act; he would take first crack at the interrogation. The senior agent was hoping to initiate a plea bargain ensuring Jenkins' cooperation in providing restitution to his victims and return of any and all senior citizens property he still maintained.

After barely stepping over the threshold, Peter and Neal's appearance alerted Jenkins' assistant, Elliot. His body tense, face lapsing into a disfiguring frown, the well-dressed clerk hastened from a side aisle of the store to confront the agent and his consultant.

"He doesn't look pleased with our reappearance," observed Neal.

"My mom used to warn me that someday my 'face might freeze like that'. Scary thought, actually."

"Oh, I don't think you should have any worries in that concern."

Peter looked surprised.

"You should be more worried," winked Neal, gesturing down to his ankle monitor, "that 'someday, you'll thank me for all this.'"

"Let's skip the 'mom-isms', before I remind you 'you don't always get what you want. It's a hard lesson, but you might as well learn it now.'"

Peter's cautious gaze scanned the store. "Lookie there. Someone else has taken notice."

Bradley Jenkins, well-groomed as always, clad in a perfectly-fitted blue, slim legged Hugo Boss suit, stepped out from the rear of the store, swaggering slowly toward the entrance.

"I see you've returned to our store, gentlemen," greeted Elliot. "If I remember correctly…stamps and baseball cards for you," he said, dismissing the agent with a turn of his back. "And Kugerrands for you," addressing Neal.

When Neal failed to answer, the clerk added peevishly, "I would be delighted to help you with bullion coins, but I'm afraid your friend will need to go to the Bronx for his obsession."

Neal grinned, rocking back on the balls of his feet, smoothing his fingers across the rim of his fedora hat.

Peter was content to display a serene smile that flickered into a predatory grin as he waited for the store owner to appear.

"Well, well, well, gentlemen. I'm surprised to see you again so soon. But let me guess; you've solved the case of Morris Brown's missing coins?"

"Yes, we have," replied Peter.

"Wonderful. This is just like a real Hardy Boys Mystery. You must be so proud."

" **I** am," said Neal.

"I'm so glad to hear that." Jenkin's crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. A disparaging smile showcasing his belief that he held himself infinitely superior to the men he was addressing.

"Did Morris find his lost coins somewhere in his house? He once told me he was a rather messy housekeeper."

"No, they weren't found in his house," replied the agent. "Actually, my consultant and I had an interesting conversation with a Mr. Reginald MacDonald over on Canal Street in lower Manhattan. I believe the name and location are familiar to you."

Jenkins stiffened slightly, straightening his back. "Not at all, Agent Burke. And, although I'm quite happy for Morris, I'm also quite busy. Definitely not in the mood for name games or further chitchat."

Dropping his arms, he turned to go but Neal put out an arm to block his path.

"I don't believe Agent Burke finished his explanation," said Neal. "It's quite a fascinating story; I'm sure you want to hear it."

Jenkins' assistant watched the interplay between the three men, puzzlement showing on his face. It was obvious he had no clue about what was going on.

"Mr. MacDonald is the station manager of a Manhattan branch post office; he claims to know you. Picked your face out of a photo lineup." Peter reached for his cuffs. "You're under arrest Jenkins." As the agent cuffed the man, and began to read him his rights, Neal waved the agents outside to come in.

"This is outrageous," sputtered the red-faced dealer, "on what charge? Elliot," he addressed his befuddled clerk, "call my attorney right now!" Eliot scurried away without a word.

"The charge is mail fraud, Jenkins. Devising a scheme to defraud another of property and using the United States Postal Service to execute the scheme," Peter was happy to recite. "MacDonald showed us your fictitious change of address documents causing mail to be forwarded to a box rented under your sister's name.

"Mail fraud has been a federal crime since 1872," Neal felt compelled to add.

"You would know," muttered the dealer, as he was led quietly away by Diana.

"Peter?"

"Hmm."

"Did you read the Hardy Boys when you were a kid?"

"Yup. Practically the whole series. Why?"

Neal paused, wondering if he should continue. He suddenly looked much like a young boy, unsure of himself.

"Would this case be more like 'The Melted Coins' or "Hunting for Hidden Gold'?"

"'The Melted Coins, I believe. Although that was one of the lesser books in the series," answered Peter, a hint of nostalgia evident in his voice. "Neal, as a kid, did you ever fantasize about being one of the Hardy Boys?"

"You must have," Neal digressed, with a slight smile upon his face, "and I'm sure it was Frank Hardy. Methodical, level-headed, older brother, bad-ass bookworm who's no slouch in a brawl."

"You forgot solicitous of younger, impulsive hot-headed, Joe; his crime fighting partner."

"They made quite a team, Peter; both boys equally protective and always there for the other."

Peter stopped for a moment, his face displaying mixed emotions before his lips curved into a gentle smile. "Yeah. That was a given; their friendship sacrosanct."

Neal paused for mere seconds before beginning to saunter out the front door.

"Now let's discuss this memory book of yours. You need someone to ascertain the accuracy─"

"Neal…I'm not going to let you─"

"Ghovat is in it; he must be. The Dutchman? I'm sure Tulane captured at least a page... I know I'm in it. You were obsessed with me for three years…come on, Peter!"

Peter scowled and without a backward glance, began walking briskly to his Ford Taurus.


End file.
